


lick the blade

by impossiblyincredible



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: 12x100, Blooddrain, Character Study, Dallas Steaks - Freeform, Incinerations, Other, POV Second Person, Vignette, my sam scandal uses he/they even if it isn't really used LMAO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 05:27:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29621283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblyincredible/pseuds/impossiblyincredible
Summary: Sam Scandal never asked for any of this, but then again, did anyone?
Relationships: Sam Scandal/Ronan Jaylee
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	lick the blade

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i mentioned this in the tags, but this fic describes incinerations and grief in moderate detail, so watch for that!
> 
> format is from lewis attilo's real baseball short stories, on medium as @pigeonize, and title's from moonsickness by penelope scott. hope you enjoy!

You sign the contract against your better judgement, if you’re honest. You do have a mechanical engineering degree to fall back on just in case this whole professional sports thing doesn’t work out, but something small and persistent deep in the pit of your stomach desperately hopes it will. 

Make no mistake, you have more than a few reservations—the schedule seems demanding, and you don’t know a single one of your teammates, and you were never really cut out for fame in the first place, but—

You sign the contract anyway.  _ Samuel Scandal, _ in the neatest cursive you can muster.

* * *

As it turns out, your teammates are fucking brilliant. When you hit a grand slam against the Pies and jog triumphantly back to home plate, Ronan slings an arm around your shoulder, and Conner wolf whistles like a madman. You protest halfheartedly, but you’re smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. 

The Steaks make it to the playoffs that season, but when you think about it later, nothing stands out as clearly as that grand slam. Years later, you still remember it all in near-perfect detail.

It was the first and only time, you think, that you  _ really _ loved the game.

* * *

The noise hits you first. People starting to shout, nudging their teammates and saying “Hey, look at the field, what’s going  _ on— _ ” You turn back to the field, and something’s—no,  _ someone’s _ on fire—Ronan’s hand tightens even harder on yours, but you don’t notice, because someone—Jaylen Hotdogfingers?—is  _ dead _ on the field, and now the smell of burning flesh is everywhere, and it’s sickeningly, overwhelmingly distinct and it’s  _ not going away _ —

You want to get up. You can’t get up. You just hold Ronan’s hand and listen to Cory starting to cry, unable to tear your eyes away from the field.

* * *

The incinerations don’t stop. Of course they don’t—you don’t know why you ever thought otherwise. It’s Hotdogfingers, it’s Tyreek, then it’s  _ Lars, _ and the sick relief that it wasn’t you doesn’t care that it shouldn’t exist, doesn’t care that you’re supposed to be a good person who can grieve a friend normally.

It’s not even like you’re actually safe. It could be you tomorrow, could be Ronan or Conner or Cory. But every day, you let out a breath and think  _ not me today, _ and your disgust at that relief might kill you before an umpire ever gets a chance.

* * *

Someone tells you to get a plant. You don’t remember who, but you remember how they said it, that faux-sympathetic  _ It can’t be that bad _ tone, and even just remembering it irritates you. Like a plant will make up for shit.

But then next time you’re at Home Depot, your eyes linger on the nursery for a second longer than usual, and you sigh. Fine. It’ll be something low-maintenance, something that can survive untouched for days at a time.

The green doesn’t fit in with the off-white and stale brown of the rest of your apartment, but still. It’s nice.

* * *

Sebastian’s burned-up body hits the ground right in front of you, and you have to force yourself to look away. When you get back to your apartment, you can't even cry; the only thing that claws its way out is a dry, wracking sob, the kind that tears up your throat and  _ hurts.  _

But the next morning, it’s just lead-heavy. Grief has settled in your apartment like fog, and you’re not sure when you became so comfortable with it. You haven’t watered the plant in weeks. 

You get used to it. It’s a rotten thing to say, but it’s true.

* * *

The game’s gotten mean, so you get meaner. Not to your teammates, obviously, not to the people you already love, but now, when you meet other people, you can’t help but keep them at a hard distance, let your glares speak for you.

And eventually it becomes habit. People start staying away from you too, the press starts hounding the godawful Sam Scandal, but you very resolutely don’t care. 

Allison Abbott joins the Steaks, and you see your own anger mirrored back at you. Her first day, you fight. Her second, you’re friends. 

It’s as simple as that, these days.

* * *

“Don’t pull your punches, Abbott” you say, breathing hard. “Gotta learn somehow, right? I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are,” Allison snorts, but she obliges, landing her next hit much harder. You grunt and shuffle backward, watching for any weaknesses in Allison’s stance. Obviously, there aren’t any, but it’s as good of an excuse as any to get a bit of a break.

It’s catharsis, sort of—repetitive and solid and grounding. You do know that if push comes to shove, being able to throw a punch won’t do shit, not against the gods, but there’s a grim satisfaction in learning anyway.

* * *

You think you’re used to the near-constant violence of it all, up until Ronan gets siphoned. Three people have to hold you back as Huerta sinks his teeth into her shoulder. 

“Fuck,” you shout. “Mother _fucker. _ ” Your voice is hoarse, choking on blood and venom and rage. 

As Ronan stumbles back, it takes everything you have not to charge Huerta where he stands. You know the bite won’t kill her— she knows too—but the idea won’t leave your mind. She puts a bloody hand on the back of your neck, bringing your foreheads together, and you let out a rough exhale.

* * *

You buy another plant. This one a bit bigger, but still a succulent—you’re gone a lot, wouldn’t do to come back to wilted plants. Allison asks if you’ve come up with names for either of them yet. You say no, but it’s a lie.

The league is good at shaking off the people that have died. Play continues. Their things disappear from lockers, their replacements come from nowhere. The only remembrance anyone gets is the hall of flame, and that feels more like a threat than anything else, so—

Lars, in a pot on your nightstand. Sebastian, placed carefully alongside.

* * *

You haven’t wanted to reach the playoffs in a very long time. No one’s ascended yet, but you’re inclined to suspect that isn’t a good thing, even if you haven’t mentioned it to anyone else yet. 

It just doesn’t sit right with you. The stories about the trench are horrific—you’re just too jaded to believe that the Up is any better. Not when the gods that rule from there are so bloodthirsty. 

You’d take the playoffs over ascension any day, though, and that makes you wonder when you started to prefer the hell you know over the heaven you don’t.

* * *

Ronan moves in after Day X. You don’t really talk about it, but she stays in bed with you and doesn’t leave, and you make her coffee in the morning, and you don’t say how ridiculously, achingly grateful you are, but she knows. You know she knows.

She winds her arms around your waist, and you rest yours around her shoulders, pull her close. The near-constant anger that simmers in your stomach doesn’t quite dissipate, but Ronan knows that too. She loves it because she loves you.

You almost  _ dare _ the gods to take her away. You’d eat them alive.

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this, feel free to leave a kudos or a comment, and i'm also on tumblr as @goodwinmorin. thanks for reading! <3


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